


It's Okay

by orangefriday



Category: Smosh
Genre: Angst, One-Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-11
Updated: 2012-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23057950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangefriday/pseuds/orangefriday
Summary: Anthony can't let himself go... not anymore.
Relationships: Ian Hecox/Anthony Padilla





	It's Okay

**Author's Note:**

> This story had a mind of its own. It wasn't supposed to be angst... I had it all planned out - wrote the ending to a potentially non-angst fic and then _bam!_ Angst took over. Thank you so muchto [](https://98ninetyeight.livejournal.com/profile)[98ninetyeight](https://98ninetyeight.livejournal.com/) for being an incredible and amazing Grammar Nazi and rage-fic consultant! *huge hugs!!!*

It’s okay.

He’s okay.

“No, I’m not,” he says to himself, staring at the mirror that reflects somebody he doesn’t recognize – somebody he hates. The smell of disinfectant and alcohol on his breath fills his senses. He clutches the edge of the counter, so hard until his knuckles turn white and his fingernails bend. He looks crazed with eyes rimmed with red and chin and cheeks sprinkled with stubble. He’s forgotten what he looked like, forgotten to take care of himself but now, after days of avoiding himself, he looks in the mirror and remembers why he hasn’t for so long.

Because it’s not all right anymore.

That’s why he had stopped looking.

“Okay,” he sighs and nods, “It’s all right. I’m okay, I’m okay.”

He looks again and wants to break the mirror.

“No. _No._ ” He breathes. “I can’t.”

So he’ll drown himself in the earth when he drinks whiskey. He’ll order shot after shot and hope that each time he downs the liquid, that it poisons him further to forget, to not think, to stop.

“I’m all right,” Anthony says as he stands at the bar, watching Ian who is across the room, almost shrouded by the writhing mass of sweaty hot bodies that slithers to the beat. The smell of cigarettes and musky alcohol on his tongue seems to reverberate along with the bass of the music, making Anthony’s chest thump double time along with his sullen heart. He watches Ian, from the corner of his eye as he grips the wet shot glass in his hand. He watches as Ian sidles up to somebody, a girl, and brings his hand to rest on her hip. Anthony watches as Ian smiles, laughs a little when the girl turns around and brings her hands to wrap around his neck. Anthony has to let go of his glass lest he break it.

And he’s back in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet seat with his pants on and not giving a shit that piss or vomit or whatever kind of bile probably coats the white porcelain. His face is numb and the alcohol is working but only on his body. His fingertips feel light and his head sort of floats around along with his vision. A chuckle sounds in the empty room but he hardly hears it over the leftover violent drumming of music that echoes in his ears.

“I-I’m good,” he says, smacking a hand across his unfeeling face. Everything feels like too much and even though his thoughts are distant, they’re heavier and bigger when mixed with his scrambled state. He’s almost delirious with everything that’s been overwhelming his mind for days. He wishes and wants for what was _before_ , but he knows he can’t.

“Anthony!” a voice calls when Anthony stumbles off of the toilet when he hears Ian, chest bumping into the frame of the red bathroom stall. “Wha—What are you doin’? I’ve been lookin’ all over! Why, hah, why are you in here, man?”

Ian is red lipped and red faced, and his bowl of hair unkempt. Anthony can just picture that girl’s long, slender fingers running through brown locks. Anthony doesn’t want to think about Ian’s swollen lips. He swallows down the lump of jealously. A goofy smile from Ian follows words that slur out like water, words that Anthony can’t understand. He probably called Anthony a bitch or something absurd.

“Ian, you—you’re fucking wasted,” Anthony points out, teetering sideways and he has to reach a hand out when he starts to fall. It finds Ian’s shoulder and his friend moves forward to accommodate Anthony’s weight. He’s laughing for some reason, maybe because Ian shakes his head and staggers backwards so that Anthony has to move with him until they’re both just arms and shoulders and faces pressed in weird places against each other. Anthony finds himself with his chin atop Ian’s mop of hair radiating moist heat and the middle of his back digging into a corner of the wall beside the sink. The side of his shirt soaks up the wet countertop that his hip rests against.

If he were to look in the mirror at this instant, he wonders what he would think. If this is all right, if this is okay, that Ian’s breath is melting into his own hot sweaty skin and the distinct familiar smell of Ian and citrus shampoo wafts into Anthony’s nose so that he’s motivated to breathe more than he should. A hundred memories wrap around his mind.

“Can you stand up, Ian?” Anthony asks when he feels Ian’s hands digging into his side, trying to steady himself. His words are clear but his vision and his thoughts are murky with other things.

In return, he only gets laughter and a groan, then a gagging sound that has Anthony quickly dragging his friend back into the bathroom stall. His mind is a couple of steps behind his body but he’s amazed with himself that he’s able to hold Ian’s head over the toilet bowl as his friend doubles over with vomit spilling out.

“Fuck, I-I-I’m sorry, Anthony,” Ian says when he’s finished, coughing and gripping Anthony’s wrist with an iron fist. He looks up and there are tears in the corner of his eyes. “Oh my god… Shit, Anthony, I’m sorry.”

Ian’s never been this drunk and Anthony is a little worried, a little pissed, too, because Ian always gets himself in shit that Anthony doesn’t want to deal with or think about. He hopes it’s just vomit that Ian is sorry about and nothing else.

He doesn’t want to think about what Ian should be sorry about. Or what Anthony should be sorry about himself. Those things have long passed but they creep up around them too often and too much.

Anthony sighs and flushes the toilet with a grimace. “What the fuck, Ian? What’s with the crying?” Ian doesn’t answer, only groans as he stands up straight with a heavy hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “Do you need to go again?”

Ian shakes his head. “N-No… I-I’m just…” Ian sighs and burps. God, Ian’s breath is foul and it takes a lot for Anthony not to want to gag himself. “Ant… Anthony?”

“What?” Anthony asks, stumbling backwards when Ian leans forward too much. He’s so close and Anthony wonders if that’s all right.

Ian smiles. “Nothing… I just… nevermind.”

“What? Okay… whatever. Idiot,” Anthony says, rolling his eyes. Ian slumps forward and Anthony catches him. He has to adjust himself so that Ian’s forehead rests on the crook of Anthony’s neck. He’s a little sweaty himself and hot. Ian’s wet forehead and breath doesn’t help to cool him down either. It doesn’t help that his heart skips a little when Ian’s fingers ghost around his waist and clutches at the small of his back. Anthony hopes nobody else comes into the washroom so that he doesn’t need to scramble to get Ian off of him. He hopes nobody interrupts the closeness that sways between them, just like how alcohol makes everything swirl and blend together with little hazy bits of melting sparkles.

Anthony almost laughs again, thinking about sparkles and hearts and _melting_. He can hardly remember the last time they were like this. He wonders if he’s really okay.

“Ian?” Anthony whispers and it’s ridiculous because the music drowns every sound. But he doesn’t notice the music anymore, too intent on the feel of Ian’s warm breath on his collarbone.

He’s okay, Anthony thinks. He can control himself.

But how can he, when Ian and him are so close that every part of him that touches Ian tingles with exhilaration? It doesn’t help that Ian’s fingers are moving up and down along his back and the damp forehead is replaced with a flushed cheek. It doesn’t help that Ian’s lips tickle the sensitive skin under Anthony’s neck as he mouths the words to a song Anthony isn’t listening to.

Ian’s hips start to move and Anthony catches himself from moving with him. The absurdity of them in a club, in the washroom, holding onto each other and possibly _dancing_ , is enough for Anthony to snap out of it. There’s a line between _okay_ and _too friggin’ weird_. He starts to pull away from Ian, a little reluctantly but Anthony isn’t that desperate, however much he misses the familiarity.

“Ian, what the hell—”

“Shut up, bitch,” Ian slurs, tightening his hold on Anthony’s waist. Anthony stops squirming and pushing when he feels teeth grazing and lips sucking his skin. A million thoughts run through his head and a riveting shiver slices across his body, emanating from the spot Ian’s mouth is working.

There’s almost nothing okay about this but Anthony is too shocked, too scared, and too unwilling to move. If his mind and his dick wasn’t so intoxicated, he might have remembered why they stopped in the first place, why they never continued and why they both agreed that – whatever _that_ was – was wrong.

It was all wrong. Nothing was okay about it.

But he only brings his hands up to tangle into Ian’s hair, feeling the clammy scalp against his palm and revelling in the touch of Ian’s lips moving along his neck, to his ear and sucking lightly on his cheek. The kisses move dangerously closer and closer and linger longer and longer. It takes a lot of Anthony not to move. He’s afraid to move because it feels like a dream. Every time Ian’s heated lips touch him, the ache in his chest grows bigger and hits him with a disorienting wave of memories.

He hardly hears himself whisper, “Ian, this – this isn’t okay.”

Ian stops and Anthony almost whimpers. He lets out a shaky sigh and his fingers tremble. Ian moves his head back to look at Anthony, half-lidded blue eyes staring intently with no room for questions.

“No, it’s okay.” Ian says and leans in until their lips almost touch. “Please, let’s try this again.” Something in Anthony almost snaps but he holds himself back. He can’t, however much he wants this.

“What are we doing?” Anthony asks and his lips sting. He can smell Ian’s breath laced with the scent of alcohol and vomit but it doesn’t make Anthony want it any less. He still wonders what Ian tastes like, what it would be like to know, and if this was really okay.

Ian only shrugs and shifts impossibly closer, lips almost, almost, _almost_ touching but Anthony jerks back before they do.

“Stop.” Anthony is able to wrench his way out of Ian’s tempting hold, feeling incredibly cold without Ian’s pressed warmth all over him. The beating of his heart is louder than the harsh bass of the music outside. “Stop. You’re drunk. I – I… We can’t do this.”

He can’t look at Ian, knowing if he does, everything wouldn’t be okay and he wouldn’t be able to stop himself like he just did. The weeks of want and desire and dreams flash through the hazy barrier that had almost blinded him. Anthony had almost kissed Ian. A kiss could have lead to _more_ , so much _more._

Anthony wants a lot that he won’t – _can't_ – let himself have.

“Okay,” he hears Ian say, slow and clear. No hint of blended words anymore. “You’re right. We shouldn’t.”

“We can’t.” The words feel like a kick in the chest; regurgitated and forced. Anthony thinks it’s over so he lets himself look at Ian and his breath catches in his throat.

Ian’s face is turned upwards, hands in his pockets and shaking. There’s something painful about the shuddering breath that leaves Ian’s tense shoulders.

Anthony doesn’t know what to think or what to do. He doesn’t understand and nothing makes it any easier. Not the way Ian sighs again or the way Ian shakes his head and looks at him with unseeing eyes. Or the way Ian’s bottom lip trembles as his mouth opens and closes with caught words. Anthony wants Ian, in every way he can think of, so he can fill that desolate longing hole inside of him, but he won’t. He can’t.

Finally, Ian says, “Why not?” He lifts his foot, as if wanting to take a step forward but Ian doesn’t move. “Why can’t we?”

Anthony only stares back, the answer clear and prominent in his mind. Never mind the feelings that spring forth, trying to cover up his next words. Anthony remembers the man in the mirror and how much he hates him.

“Because it’s not okay,” he answers. “Because it’s not. Not anymore. Not ever. It never will.”

It’s another moment of stillness and thrumming muffled music keeping silence away. Anthony looks down at the floor and stuffs his shaking hands into his own pockets.

“Okay,” Ian’s voice is small, almost hopeless, and Anthony cringes. “Okay. Let’s… let’s go home now. I’ll meet you up front.”

Heavy footsteps fade away into the deafening throb of noise that is muted again by the washroom door closing.

And then Anthony is alone.

  



End file.
